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EMERALDThrowback Thursday

Is that it?I manage not to say this out loud but McKenzie stands there,

sucking her teeth, like she’s reading my mind. ‘Before you go, Emerald, there is one more thing.’

The way she presses her lips together it’s obvious she’s moved on from A level Economics. ‘Yes, Miss.’

‘I was wondering whether anything more might have come back to you?’ There’s a dramatic pause here, during which I do a sort of squint, as though I don’t know what she’s talking about. ‘From the unfortunate incident after Inter- house athletics last week?’ she continues.

I’m suddenly too hot. I quickly shake my head. ‘No, Miss.’‘Even the smallest new detail would help,’ she says, leaning back

against the desk now, almost sitting. ‘While I can’t bear to think a Hollyfield girl deliberately locked another pupil into the changing rooms, stealing her clothes while she showered –’ She stops now and does a little shudder ‘– why on earth would Ignatia Darcy stage something so … embarrassing?’

My eyes aren’t even closed and it’s like I’m back there again, peering in the tiny window at poor, frizzy- haired Iggy, shivering outside the shower cubicle, soaked to the skull and wearing nothing

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but a pair of sumo- wrestler style knickers fashioned from a roll of blue hand- drying paper.

Iggy is probably the only girl in the Fifth Form that’s even close to being overweight. And not like, ‘OMG, my thigh- gap is tiny!’ crap. She is almost properly fat. I hate that this is significant, but at our school it is. She’s also pretty much friendless. I haven’t even told Kitty this but when I took Iggy to her dorm afterwards, she told me how she only started comfort eating after her little sister died of meningitis three years ago. Died! I had no idea. I was gripped as she described the aching loneliness she feels at our school. Days went by, she said, without her talking to anyone but our teachers. She said her viola keeps all her secrets because she’s got no one else to tell. As we sat together on her tiny bed I wanted to let her know that I  too feel lonely. Of course I  said nothing, but I did hold her clammy hand in mine for a bit, which thinking about it, was probably kind of weird.

It’s like McKenzie senses me drifting. She moves closer. ‘You chose kindness in coming to me that afternoon, Emerald. I’m well aware that others close to you chose to turn a blind eye, at best.’

It wasn’t a question but her badly pencilled brows seem to arc in wait. Oh God, someone hand her a shovel. I don’t know where to look. Truth is, I had no idea Bryony was behind the whole ‘inci-dent’ when I reported it. The fact that Bryony knows it was me who rescued Iggy and then got McKenzie involved is making my life hard enough already.

I scan the room and my eyes land on the large, industrial clock above her desk. It’s almost five past four. My phone vibrates inside my bag and I’m suddenly desperate to check Instagram to see if Rupert has liked my new post. It’s just another photo from Glastonbury last weekend but it had forty- two likes by lunch.

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More buzzing. C’mon, c’mon. I’ve got to get out of here. Besides, Mum will be here any minute.

A sharp gust from McKenzie’s nostrils makes my arm hairs stand on end. When I look up, her bespectacled eyes squint kindly back at me.

‘You were a deserving winner of the Citizenship Award this year, Emerald, but remember, courage is a muscle. We strengthen it with use.’

That’s easy for her to say.‘We’ll get to the bottom of all of this soon, I’m sure,’ she says,

smiling at me now. She leans in closer. I don’t think I’m imagining it. Yes, the space between us is definitely getting smaller and there’s a significant risk that our Head is about to do something drastic, like hug me.

I quickly hoist my bag on to my shoulder. ‘Better go.’‘Right oh,’ she says, inching back. ‘Well, see you at Speech Day

tomorrow.’‘Yes, Miss,’ I cut in. ‘Bye!’I’m so desperate to get out into the air I tumble straight into a

vomit of Third Form girls pouring out from their last class of the day. I lean against a pillar and search for my phone as they swarm around their lockers like flies. I stare at my shoes, unable to shake the image of Iggy’s devastated face as I held her heavy hand in mine.

A familiar, high cackle rips through the chatter. I  look up to catch Bryony and Kitty squad- strutting across the library lawn. The usual hangers- on trail behind, relishing the general radiance in their wake. They’re all backlit by the hazy sunshine and it’s as though the world has suddenly gone slow mo. I’m not the only one to notice. The Third Former beside me digs her friend in the ribs. ‘Friendship goals!’ she squeals, pointing at them.

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Kitty is out front, expertly distressed topknot and endless tanned limbs gliding along in off- duty model mode. Seriously, my best friend would make a Kardashian look basic. Bryony is pretty too, but she’s short and has to work that bit harder.

‘Votes flying in already,’ Bryony says to Kitty, waving her phone in front of her face. ‘Even she’s got to admit this is properly funny.’

Kitty grabs the phone and smiles. The girls behind begin to laugh over her shoulder until the smaller of the Spanish twins spots me and her face falls. Kitty looks up from the screen and waves, shoving the phone into Bryony’s stomach. It’s another few seconds before Bryony stops typing and whips her head in my direction. I watch her try to slide it back into her blazer pocket as she walks, but her hand keeps missing the slot.

‘There you are,’ says Kit, loosening my tie before offering me some gum. Bryony is less relaxed. ‘In McFrenzie’s office, again?’

‘Yeah, another sermon on A  level choices. Lucky me,’ I  reply, attempting to chew casually.

Bryony eyes me suspiciously.‘Votes for what?’ I ask and the twins behind bite their cheeks.

When Kit finally grabs the phone and slides it into my palm the most unflattering photo EVER literally leaps up at me. I almost drop it. I struggle to focus on the split- screen image of me with the taller of the Spanish twins wearing the same yellow Ted Baker dress at the Fifth Form Ball. WHO WORE IT BEST? scribbled in pink text between our two pictures. But it’s not just the awful dress or the fact that my competition looks like a skinnier Selena Gomez. Bryony has purposely used a horrible shot of me fixing my knickers through my dress. I look like I’m scratching my bum!

Fifty-nine likes!Twenty- eight minutes ago.

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Bryonibbgal same dress same night. You know the drill.#tbt #WhoWoreItBest #whowinsWhat! How could she? I’m shaking my head when the phone

buzzes in my hand as someone else votes @bryonibbgal with loads of Spanish flag emojis. Bryony snatches it back.

‘It was a joke, babe,’ says Kitty, taking my hand.Am I supposed to laugh?‘C’mon, Em. It’s funny,’ Kitty adds, giving me a playful dig on

the arm. I try to smile but really it’s all I can do not to push her hand away.

‘No point throwing shade at Kit,’ Bryony jumps in. ‘I posted it. And trust me, there were others WAY more unflattering.’

My mouth is open but there’s no sound. Like an airlock at the back of my throat with a faint ticking I’m hoping only I can hear. Bryony is still eyeballing me. Naked Iggy was another joke I didn’t get, apparently. And this is what I get for keeping quiet? I can’t believe I just lied to McKenzie to save her ass. I can’t look at her. I can’t look at any of them.

As though sensing I’m about to break, Kit slinks her arm in mine and drags me down the steps towards the car park.

‘Can someone explain why we’re being dragged back to school tomorrow for Speech Day and a bloody tug of war? Such a waste of time! Don’t see why summer can’t start after our last exam,’ says Kitty to a general buzz of agreement. We’re at the main archway when her schoolbag plummets to the ground with a heavy thud. She spins around on her heel to me. ‘Um, where’s your mum, Em? It’s like …’ She checks her phone. ‘Quarter past four?’

The knot of tension in my gut twists even tighter. Seriously, Mum! Not today, please! ‘Um, I might have forgotten to remind her it was her turn to pick up,’ I  say, rolling my eyes while

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swallowing a thousand shards of broken glass. ‘I’m such a ditz lately.’

Bryony casts a knowing side- eye at Kitty. What’s she doing in the car park anyway? Parents don’t pick up boarders until after Speech Day tomorrow. I guess she’s just relishing her power a little longer.

Just then, in the distance by the tennis courts, I spot Iggy shuf-fling along backwards, hauling her wares like a homeless bag lady. I  realise I’m staring when she glances at me and smiles. I  look away quickly but it’s too late.

Bryony follows my eyes. ‘Oh look, Em, it’s your friend,’ she whispers loudly, before making the sound of a reversing truck out of the side of her mouth. ‘Wide load! Beep, beep, beeeeep.’

Everybody laughs. I  want to run across the courtyard, seize Iggy’s shoulders, look into her eyes and say sorry. I want to shout it out. I need everyone in the school to hear it.

I open my mouth wide, but still there is no sound.Kitty takes out her phone with a huge dramatic sigh. ‘I suppose

I’ll have to call Mum.’

Nineteen hours later

I reach for the open door of Dad’s car. I think about slam-ming it, but I don’t. Instead the door clunks shut beside me, heavy and final. I slip down the large leather seat and turn my face to watch Mum and Dad through the passenger win-dow. Nick, the counsellor, is standing directly between them, framed by the clinic entrance. He’s around the same age as Dad, with a look that says he’s pretty pleased with himself. Crisp, pink shirt belted into oatmeal chinos; that kind of guy.

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I can tell Nick’s whole preppy- thing is making Dad itch. He’s folding and unfolding his arms when suddenly Mum takes a step back, leaving Nick closer to Dad and making their little triangle more isosceles than equilateral. I guess our little family is pretty much this shape too: the shortest distance between me and Dad, and Mum increasingly at arm’s length from both of us.

I can hardly believe that just twenty- four hours ago my beef with Bryony seemed like such a big deal. Before I got in from school yesterday afternoon I don’t think I knew what a real problem was.

Kitty’s mum eventually pulled up at the archway, drum-ming her fingers on the steering wheel as we piled in. Can’t blame her for being hacked off. Our lift- share arrangement hasn’t exactly worked out for her lately.

As we left the Hollyfield gates behind us, I had no idea it was to be for the last time this year. It certainly wasn’t how I’d pictured my last day of Fifth Form. Usually I would have felt way worse about Mum not turning up, but I was so dis-tracted trying the home number and desperately attempt-ing to get enough signal on our country lanes to untag myself from the hideous photo. When we eventually pulled into our drive I wanted to weep with relief at being closer to Wi- Fi!

‘See you in the morning,’ I said, clambering out of the car, barely looking up.

‘FaceTime later, yeah?’ Kitty hollered as I  opened the boot- room door.

I didn’t answer but I  waved them off with my best everything- is- fine smile.

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As if I didn’t already know something was up, music was playing loudly inside the house. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. I called out for Mum but my shouts were dampened by the noise of Kitty’s car pulling away on the gravel outside. I traipsed into the hallway, through the breakfast room and into the kitchen, praying my rising dread was all just madness inside my head.

‘Mum?’ I cried, but there was still no answer. I sprinted up the stairs and heard the faint sound of running water, which got louder as I reached her bedroom. Yep, her bed-room, not theirs. Mum and Dad no longer sleep together.

I peered over the far side of her large, unmade bed as Fleetwood Mac blared out from a speaker in the corner.

‘Mum?!’ I was still yelling it as I entered her en suite bathroom, where a tap gushed violently into the sink. I reached to turn it off and my legs buckled under the sudden silence. I tried to process the pill packets and empty foil trays scattered all over the floor: Diazepam, Lorazepam, Xanax, Zolpidem – all of which had become familiar to me from the discarded packets twinkling up from the bottom of empty bathroom bins. I tumbled down the narrow hallway, swatting my hands against the walls on either side for support. Then I fell through her dressing- room door.

There she was, on the floor, motionless, just a faint gurg-ling coming from her open, bluish lips. The smell hit me like a spade and I collapsed beside her face, which was lying in a perfect pool of vomit. I rummaged for her pulse and began trying to resuscitate her, clearing her mouth the way we’d been taught to on that grotesque doll in lifesaving class.

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No matter how bad Mum’s been lately, I never expected to have to do that.

One – elephant – two – elephant – three …I was beyond twenty before she began to cough. That’s

when I allowed myself to breathe.I immediately called Dad. After that I just sat there grip-

ping her hand, regretting every single horrible thing I’d said to her over the last week. When I began to free the stray, wet hairs that had stuck to her face, she squeezed my hand back and my insides caved. I stared at her, curled up, folded into herself and looking smaller than a mother should be. For a moment I thought about snuggling into her like a lit-tle girl, but I felt her hands and legs were cold so I grabbed an old blanket from the closet and tucked it in all round her, neatly pressing in the edges like she was one of Grandma’s puff pastry pies. Then I  lay on the carpet and trembled alongside her.

The paramedics worked quickly. Dad’s PA, Magda, arrived at the same time as the ambulance and Dad wasn’t too far behind. Mum spent last night at the University Hospital and was delivered straight here to rehab this morning.

Nick calls it an intervention.

Dad jumps in to the car beside me. ‘Christ, that man talks,’ he says, slinging his seat belt on. He lays his hand on my right knee and steadies his breath, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Mum. I glare at her through the window and slowly raise my fingers to the glass to wave. She does the same and our eyes lock.

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The engine roars into life and the car begins to roll away. I too try to get my breath to steady but my heart is jump-ing around inside my ribs. I  try to copy Dad’s calm but everything inside me is out of sync. I can’t believe this is real. I can’t believe we’re leaving Mum in a place like this. I want Dad to speed away so I don’t have to watch, but mostly I want to open the car door and pull her back inside.

Dad starts to reverse down the clinic’s long drive. I have no choice but to stare as Nick leads Mum back inside the large Regency building which, with its wisteria- laden verandah, looks very like our own home not far away on the other side of Bath. Weirdly this similarity makes leav-ing more awful. Mum doesn’t turn around, which helps, but my guts shoot deep down inside me like a lift suddenly summoned to the ground floor. I watch her and Nick get-ting slowly smaller until the bright July sun hits the wind-screen and swallows them up whole.

We’re racing through the Somerset countryside towards the airport now and it’s like Dad can only drive in fifth gear. I sit up and try to peer over the dense hedgerows, but they’re too high and we’re going too fast. The throbbing inside my head isn’t helped by the overpowering smell of new car. I open the window and gulp in some air.

‘Shall we listen to some music?’ he asks. His words sound light and new. I try to let them lift me but can only nod as Ed Sheeran begins to pour from the speakers around us. On the rare occasion that Dad listens to music he rarely strays from Thin Lizzy or a bit of old- school U2, so this is strange. I’m also totally sick of this song.

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‘Is this the radio?’He takes off his sunglasses. ‘It’s … a new playlist,’ he says,

his face softening. I’m not sure my face can hide its surprise. ‘Y’all right there, Scout?’

Dad’s always called me this.‘Everything’s going to be OK, love,’ he says now, look-

ing at me with that dad face. Dad’s kind of handsome, or so Kitty says, though I hate her mentioning it. ‘You were great in there with Nick. And, Em,’ he says, putting his hand back on my knee, ‘I want you to know how much I appreciate your …’ I watch him feel around his mouth for the right word, ‘cooperation … on everything. The past twenty- four hours have been horrendous for you, I know that, but Mum’s in the best place now.’

I taste the desperate pleas loading themselves on to my tongue and consider how they might sound out loud. I want to beg him not to pack me off to Grandma’s. I want to tell him how much I don’t want to be in Ireland on my own for the next eight weeks. I want to beg him not to steal my chance of a real summer. But of course I can’t.

‘It was like it wasn’t really her,’ I say after a while.‘She’s medicated, honey. That’s all.’‘D’you think it’ll work?’He exhales slowly and I watch him try to smile. ‘Foxford

Park is the best treatment centre there is,’ he says, without answering my question.

I want to go home. I want to curl into a ball on my own bed but I can’t even do that. Dad’s court case starts on Monday, miles up the motorway in London, and he’s clearly decided I can’t fend for myself at home so my

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summer exile will start in Portstrand later today. We drive under the dark dome of a railway bridge. I want to hide here in the darkness, never to reappear.

Dad clears his throat. ‘Look, I know it’s hard, but let’s try to be positive.’

‘Uh huh.’‘Nick said rock bottom is the best opportunity for a last-

ing recovery. And remember, Em, these are Mum’s issues, not yours.’

Dad’s mouth seems to have been hijacked. He’s never talked about Mum’s issues before so even this tiny chink of truth feels awkward but he smiles his toothy grin, which makes it hard not to at least attempt a smile back. ‘I’m really sorry you’ve had to miss your last day.’

I know it’s not cool to admit it but I actually like Speech Day. Plus I  wanted to be part of all of the end- of- term goodbyes, but honestly, with everything that’s been going on with Bryony lately, it’s strangely OK to be missing out. The one upside to the whole awfulness is not having to put on my game- face for a day.

I sense Dad turn to face me again. ‘Hey, what is it?’I want to shout EVERYTHING! But I look at his tired

eyes and say nothing. I  never do. Acres of golden fields whizz by outside my window. ‘I’m fine, Dad.’ I lie.

He takes his foot off the accelerator and looks over. ‘Em?’ But he knows me too well.

I open my mouth, genuinely unsure of what’s coming. ‘Won’t it be weird? Me staying with Grandma, after – ’ I don’t finish the sentence; I’m not sure I know how. I’ve never talked to him about what happened with Mum and

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me in Grandma’s house that Christmas. When I try to remember, it’s only ever flashes and the pieces don’t join up. What I do know is that until then we spent every Christmas there with her but we haven’t been back to Dublin since. Grandma still phones and stuff, but it’s not the same.

Dad doesn’t say anything and I immediately feel guilty. He leans over and turns the music down. ‘You and Grandma always got on a bomb.’

‘But it’s been like forever.’‘Five years isn’t forever,’ he says. I  sit straighter as he

reaches out to turn the music back up. Our hands brush in the no- man’s- land of the enormous dashboard and we both pull back. ‘Anyway – ’ he flashes a quick smile – ‘Grandma’s excited to see you.’ He feeds tiny morsels of the steering wheel between his fists without looking at me.

I can’t think of anything to say back so I  busy myself unplugging my phone from the charging dock. I ran out of battery at the hospital last night and spent the whole time flicking through crap magazines while trying to sleep on Dad’s shoulder. I was way too wired with anxiety and Diet Coke to pass out but Dad found a pack of cards in the fam-ily room and we spent hours playing Old Maid and Gin Rummy. It was all quite Victorian.

Just two texts; both from Kitty wondering where I am. There are the constant WhatsApps from Bryony about Kitty’s party too, but these are to me and eighty- nine of our closest friends. It’s so strange to think Mum nearly died and nobody even knows. I’m not sure I can face tell-ing Kitty about this yet, let alone the fact that I’m about to drop off the face of the earth for the next eight weeks.

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Feeling reckless, I decide to text Ru. I’ve spent six months fancying the way- out- of- my- league Rupert Heath, and after weeks of shameless stalking I managed to get with him twice, the last time being at the Fifth Form Ball (the annual cross- pollination of what McKenzie calls ‘our nice Hollyfield Girls and the fine Cliffborough Boys’ –  ick!).

Wanna chat later? Xxx

Thoughts of the ball only lead to a horrible flashback to the knicker- picking image. Please God don’t let Ru have seen the photo before I untagged myself.

I reread my text and remove two of the kisses.Ed Sheeran belts out another ballad as we hit the motor-

way and Dad sings along, bopping his head out of time. While I definitely can’t pretend this is normal behaviour, it’s impossible not to love him for trying. Nothing back from Ru. I consider replying to Kitty but how do I even begin to explain everything in a text? Can’t call though. Not with Dad in the car. With a glance at the clock, Dad turns off the music and switches on the news, which is all about the migrant crisis. The reporter clears his throat and adds that the body of the missing schoolgirl was pulled from the Thames Estuary this morning. His reporter voice rambles on but all I can think about is what would hap-pen if I were to be washed up by the sea. My head fizzes wondering how they would describe me and I can’t decide what would be worse: drowning or the world’s press photo-graphing me without my editorial control.

Bloody hell, I  performed CPR on my mother last

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night. Why am I  even thinking about a stupid photo? My head hurts. At least I think it’s my head. Wish I had a word for this horrible weariness; that feeling like I want to slip under but also like I’m too jittery to even close my eyes.

Dad screeches into the airport car park. He whips his seat belt off and grabs his files from the back seat. ‘Dublin here we come!’ he announces, sarcasm only thinly disguised. Hopping on a plane is the last thing he needs now.

I lean forward and my damp T- shirt peels off the leather seat. ‘Thanks … you know, for coming with me.’

‘After the night we’ve had, love, I’m hardly packing you off as an unaccompanied minor.’

‘Dad, I’m sixteen!’He laughs. ‘It was a joke,’ he says with a wink. ‘Still, it’ll

be nice to see the mother.’I quickly dab on some lip gloss and reach for the car

door once more.

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LIAMOne big, unapologetic anticlimax

‘Oi oi Flynn, turn off that porn!’I hear Kenny snickering to himself outside but I want to

finish this line so I ignore him. I reread the lyric I’ve just written and it’s woeful. I’m sure there’s a finer word to illus-trate just how crap, but I can’t think of it now.

‘These babies aren’t going to drink themselves, Liamo,’ Kenny roars again, even louder now. God, he’s such a knob. I fling the guitar down and go to the window. There he is, the sorry- arsed eejit, standing on our rain- slicked drive, waving his bag of cans like a raffle winner. I can’t help smil-ing at him.

‘I need you, man. I’m just about holding it together here,’ he says, clutching his chest. We’ve been nursing the tragedy of Kenny’s broken heart for weeks now, which isn’t easy for Fiona, his new girlfriend. ‘Come on, ya prick. The night’s not getting any younger.’

Years of ginger jibes have done little to dent Kenny’s ego. I bet there are few lanky- looking redheads in Ireland with such a high opinion of themselves. I  stick my head out. ‘Give us a few minutes,’ I shout.

‘Here wait! I’ve got one for you: Dany Targaryen or Sansa

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Stark? Is that a high- class problem, or what?’ He bursts into a wide grin.

Kenny’s been my best mate since were kids – three or four year olds – and for as long as I can remember he’s been asking me this same question: ‘If you had to choose between …’ and here he inserts two choices; it could be people, items, or scenarios. Anything, from which death- metal band you’d be in, to whether Murph’s ma’s hotter than Turbo’s. He’s relentless about it too.

‘G’wan, you have to pick!’ he’ll say. If you don’t do it in time he’ll belt you right across the head like you were asking for it. There’s no grey with Kenny; he’s a black or white kind of fella.

I shake my head.‘Do the fine women of Westeros mean nothing to you?’

His face is a knot of disbelief.‘Is Dany the one with the dragons?’ I ask, but he’s tutting

under his breath now, like I’ve forgotten the rules.‘Feck’s sake, Flynn!’ He begins his countdown. ‘Five, four,

three …’‘All right then, her, the one with the white hair. Jaysus.’I’ve yet to get to the end of a Game of Thrones episode

but I’m not going there now. Anyway, Kenny is rubbing his hands together gleefully, which would indicate this was the right answer.

And so it begins, another night on the piss. Who knew the summer would hold such pleasures? To think this was sup-posed to be the big one! The Leaving Cert exams are finally over and we’re finished school forever, with almost seven weeks left before the reality of results and real life bitch- slaps us into submission. This was to be the summer it all made

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sense, the milestone, the one to remember, but so far it’s one big unapologetic anticlimax. Even if I get the college course I supposedly want, it’s all a lie, but we’ve had too much bad luck in this house for me to be getting any notions. Just the thought of results and I want to take the edge off.

I poke my head around the door of my baby sister’s room. Evie was the accident, as they say; arrived when it was all kicking off and Dad was in the thick of the layoffs. Pregnant at forty- two! Mum was mortified. I overheard her telling the neighbour she felt like an irresponsible teenager, off buying pregnancy tests.

Evie’s graduated to a real bed but she can’t get the hang of it at all. I scoop her bundle into my arms and lay her back on the soft mattress. After I tuck the sides in, good and tight, I place my cheek on hers to listen to her breathing. Her breath is sweet and warm.

‘Goodnight, monkey,’ I whisper. Then I’m off down the stairs three at a time. I leap for four on the last rung.

I walk into the kitchen to find Laura pretending to dry plates but mostly being a prima donna. ‘Everyone in my class is on holidays, Mam. I’m the only one who never has a tan.’ Mam is doing her best to ignore her but my sister is persistent. ‘They’re all in Marbella or Croatia. Why don’t we ever go away any more? It’s not fair!’

‘Shut up, Laura!’ I shout.Mam drops her scrubbing brush into the sink, making

the dishwater splash back up. ‘Liam!’ She sighs, but Laura’s already left, slamming the kitchen door behind her.

‘What?’‘Don’t speak to her like that,’ she says, wiping away the

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stray bubbles that hit her face.‘She was being a little cow.’‘Liam!’‘Well, she was, Mam, and it’s not right.’ I hate myself for

doing it, but don’t I get up and storm out of the room too?I find Laura in her usual sulking spot at the bottom of the

stairs. ‘What’s your problem?’ I ask, my outstretched hand shaking. I know I’m angrier than I have any right to be.

‘I was just asking,’ she says, blowing at her fringe. This gets my blood up even more.

‘You were just asking why we aren’t going on holiday, were you?’

‘No!’‘What then? What were you asking?’‘Stop it, Liam!’‘Look at me, Laura. Don’t make Mam say it. Because that

really isn’t fair.’Laura looks at me that way she does, like I’m the meanest

person on earth, but there’s a glint; a tiny undeniable glint in her eye that knows I’m right and that’s enough for me.

‘Have you any money?’ She whispers this bit. ‘I’ve no credit on my phone. G’wan, Liam … please?’

She says it like she hasn’t eaten in days. Cashed my first paycheck from the Metro Service Station yesterday, so I give her a tenner, but I can’t resist a quip. ‘Snapchat’s gonna rob you of your ambition.’

‘What do you care anyway?’ she says, stomping up the creaking stairs, already forgetting the favour.

I swing around the bannisters and shout up after her, ‘Whatcha mean, what do I care?’

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‘It’s true,’ she hollers back, with a lash of her ponytail. ‘You never tell me anything any more. You never let me hang out with your friends!’

‘You’re thirteen!’She storms into her bedroom. ‘God, you SO don’t get it!’

she screeches.Da’s van rattles into the drive. Home late again. He holds

the phone in one hand, barely raising the other palm off the wheel to wave at Kenny, who’s now kicking a ball against the wall outside. Da’s never grasped the concept of hands- free.

I take him in, in his overalls, coming home for his now cold dinner in the beat- up Transit. I can tell he’s not talking to a friend. It’s the way his shoulders seem higher up, closer to his ears.

As family companies go, Flynn Construction was a hefty outfit once. Between Da and Grandda they built half the new houses in this town, but in three years it’s all crumbled to dust. I remember the days when Da left early for work, looking all smart, getting into his blue Beemer, the smell of shaving cream and purpose lingering in the hallway. At one point they had four or five big jobs on at once. Da’d be gone all day; going round the sites checking everything was hunky dory.

The worst thing is Da seems to like putting up flat- pack furniture for gobshites now. It’s as though he accepts his fate; sporting his handyman overalls and sorry little toolbelt like it was all a lifelong ambition. The fight’s left him.

He didn’t get out of bed for a week after it happened. Evie had just been born so Mam had the two of them at

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home under her feet. Grandda had been buried less than a year at this stage. They had thirty men on the books at the height of it. That’s thirty families like us. Only we got hit worst because Da, being the principled eejit he is, insisted on paying his men what they were owed, des-pite the fact that Horizon, the developer, pulled the plug, leaving him with nothing but a half- built estate and a crew of angry workers. Most of the lads he laid off hit the pub. There was the night when him and John- Joe put a bottle of whiskey on the bar in Moloney’s, after a feast of pints, and yer man Moloney, the aul fella, had to call Mam to collect him at two in the morning. Everybody around here knew about the bankruptcy. People were making Mam lasagne and Pyrex dishes full of food were flooding into the house as though Grandda had died all over again.

Da glances up from his call and catches me looking. He squints at me through the windscreen and his eyes shine. I smile back at him. I’m his hope, the chance to make it all better.

I can’t bear looking at him any longer so I head into the kitchen where Mam is laying his plate of chops on the table. I’m thinking about apologising to her when Dad comes in and strikes me over the back of the head with a tin of Swarfega.

‘Howrya?’‘Yeah, all right.’‘Are you coming with me in the morning?’I don’t answer; I’m thinking. Tonight will be a late one

but I  love mornings on the boat with Da when it’s just

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the two of us. He’s good on the boat: hardy, dad- like and in control again, sailing with his leathery face to the wind, chopping up the waves all the way to the island. It’s a chance to pretend he’s a king once more; that he’s not really rele-gated to carrying the weekly shop over to Lord Rosloe. Together we are free men, out on a trip, father and son on the high seas of North County Dublin.

Mam plants a kiss on Da’s cheek and walks out with an armful of neatly folded laundry. Da looks at his plate and looks at me. ‘Is it a bit late after twenty-one years to break it to your mam that I hate peas?’

We both laugh. I  love seeing him happy. That he can walk in here, limping, unshaven, and joke about stuff despite all the shite. He’s the get- by type. He’s not one for picking at the wound. I’d be right in there scratching the scab.

‘Who were you on the phone to outside?’ I ask.He’s scrubbing his hands in the sink. ‘Rosloe’s new

gamekeeper.’‘What happened to Frank?’Da shakes his head. ‘Didn’t get that out of him,’ he says,

grabbing a tea towel from Mam’s other pile of ironing and wiping filthy brown streaks all over it. It’s just as well she’s upstairs. ‘He wants things done proper now.’

‘Called you to say that?’ I  ask, joking, but he looks sombre.

‘So that means no more solo jaunts for you. D’you hear me?’ he says, picking up his plate and scraping the offend-ing peas into the bin. I nod guiltily. I took Kenny out for a spin in the boat a couple of weeks ago. It was the day we

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finished our last exam and we went all the way out to the lighthouse and burned our school shirts on the rocks while all the roseate terns and kittiwakes looked on. Kenny was impressed I knew the names of all the birds, but I could have been making them up for all he knew.

Mam walks back into the room. ‘Kenny’s outside on the wall.’

I nod. ‘Sorry for being a dick earlier, Mam.’‘Watch your language, Liam.’‘Sorry.’‘It’s OK, love.’‘I will go with you in the morning, Da.’‘Good lad!’ Da shouts, without looking up from

his plate.

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EMERALDThe end of all my summers

My eyes flash open. For a moment I can’t remember where I am or how I got here. I feel the cold phone screen against my face and lift my head to slide it out from under my cheek. Pressing the home button for the time, I read 20:07. To the left of that it says Vodafone IRL. Ireland!

I’m on the bed in Grandma’s spare room. I  stretch out and realise I  feel good, which suddenly feels awful. I remember coming up here to unpack shortly after Dad and I arrived, but I must have fallen asleep. It’s not even a millisecond before all the grim recollections flood my heavy head.

Dad’s mobile rings downstairs and I immediately regret wasting the last of my time with him up here asleep, but I might as well wait for him to finish his call. I reach for my phone again:  three more missed calls from Kitty. The WhatsApp group for her party has gone mental. The fancy- dress theme is now ‘circus’; vintage, apparently, which just makes it sound better. I move on to Instagram whilst creaming my scaly knees and elbows with some lotion I find beside the bed. It’s a serious habit: Instagram that is, not my attention to dry skin.

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Kitty has regrammed Bryony’s #whoworeitbest post!

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view all nine comments – I have to do it0o_ kittykatz_ o0 seriously though, awks!

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What?! I let the phone plummet on to my chest and close my eyes before they leak. Rupert has seen it. And comment-ing too. He never comments. Kitty? I expect this of Bryony, but Kitty? How can this hurt so much? I try to focus on the wallpaper but its furry swirls are making my head ache, so I scan the room until my eye lands on the crack in a tiny bar of soap sitting on a glass tray by the pea- green sink. I’m try-ing to distract myself with the whole sink- in- the- bedroom business when the stairs begin to creak with Dad’s slow and heavy footsteps.

‘Em?’ He moves slowly into the room. ‘Budge up there,’ he says, perching on the edge of the bed. ‘How you doing?’ His unshaven face looks crumpled. We’ve been in the coun-try for all of three hours and he sounds more Dublin than he has for years.

‘I’m OK,’ I lie, hiding the phone and sitting up.

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I really don’t want to but looking at his face I suddenly hate Mum a little. I hate her for making me yet another problem Dad has to fix. I hate her for leaving me here alone for the summer. Most of all I hate not being able to talk to her. I look at Dad again. He’s waiting for me to say some-thing but all I can think about is how angry I am with eve-rybody in the world except him (and possibly Grandma). Hot stinging tears build behind my eyes but I  refuse to let them out. ‘Couldn’t I stay with you?’ It flies out of my mouth. It’s a ridiculous thing to say considering he’s just flown all the way here to drop me off.

He looks out into the orange sky, which has come alive again after the rain and slowly shakes his head. ‘Sweetheart, it’s this case. It’s taking all my time. You do understand?’

Dad never talks about work but I’ve gathered from the scraps of overheard arguments with Mum that one of his companies is the throes of some major case.

I nod.‘I know it’s a blow,’ he says, folding me into his strong

arms before pulling away and fixing me straight in the eye. ‘Magda will be at the house with me tomorrow. Email her a list of anything else you need and we’ll have it sent over. It may be hard to believe now, but you might even like it here,’ he says.

There are several things I’d like to say now but I take the precaution of keeping my mouth shut.

He kisses me on the forehead. ‘Well, it’s straight back to the airport for me. I’ve to catch the last Bristol flight, but I’ll call first thing tomorrow. Look at me,’ he says, cupping

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my chin in his hand. ‘I love you. Everything is going to be OK. I promise.’

‘Bye, Daddy.’ I gulp. I can’t get up. I don’t even care that I called him Daddy. Right now feels like the end of all my summers.

‘Goodbye, Scout,’ he calls out, his voice fading away down the stairs.

Eventually the chatter downstairs stops and after his final goodbye to Grandma the front door closes. It’s just Grandma and me now.

I lie back and watch my chest pound up and down inside my T- shirt. My dad has left and my mum has gone. I start to doubt whether she’ll ever come back. I try not to think about how Mum could want to leave me, or what I could have done to stop her.

The whole idea of summer is now just a cruel mirage. The school- free weeks that once glistened in the distance like unopened treasure are now a deluded fantasy: Kitty’s summer party and the endless wild nights we’d spend, rav-ing by the lake and laughing under the stars. Not to men-tion my meticulously crafted plans to get Ru to actually fall in love with me. All those daydreams feel pitiful now; an illusion vanishing before my eyes like a photograph from the Polaroid camera I bought in Urban Outfitters, only in reverse. I desperately want to shake it back to life but it’s fading rapidly to black.

I drag myself up and trudge down the stairs.‘Emerald,’ Grandma calls from somewhere I  can’t see.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror: greasy hair piled on to my head, bare freckled skin and lip gloss long

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gone. Without make up I look like I’m twelve. I don’t want Grandma or anyone else to see me like this. When I turn around she’s appeared in the sitting room doorway. I freeze.

‘There you are,’ she says brightly, but her soft eyes don’t look right. Her delicate face is full of stuff needing to be said but her lips let none of it out.

‘Thought I’d get some air.’‘Oh,’ she says, her mouth falling. ‘I was thinking we’d

have some tea.’I’m about to change my mind when I feel her arms clasp

tightly around me like one of those metal bulldog clips. It’s the hug I was waiting for; the one I skirted around when we walked in the door from the airport. I wasn’t able for it then. I wonder, am I now?

I’m the taller one, which I don’t think either of us is pre-pared for. I don’t know when this happened. It’s been too long. How did I not realise how much I missed her?

‘When you get back then, eh?’ she says, taking both my hands in hers. I nod enthusiastically. Then, spotting an old coat to hide myself in, I grab it from the stand and make for the door with a new urgency.

‘’Twas your grandad’s; the overcoat. I keep it there for the burglars,’ she calls after me. I look back to find her staring at the carpet.

‘Right.’ It’s all I can manage. ‘I won’t be long.’As I  step out on to the drive the drizzle dabbles my

scorched cheeks. I  suck the cool air deep into my lungs. I cross the road and head towards the beach, which magnet-ises me as though I never left. I scan the length of the dark shore that stretches for miles ahead before looking back at

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the houses peppered in patchwork pockets on either side of the SPAR newsagent. Square white homes, all with long gardens to the front and further up, a row of golden- bricked terraces built closer to the road. One now appears to be a Chinese restaurant.

Grandma’s is one of only two properly old, Georgian- style houses that flank the run- down looking hotel beyond. You can’t actually see her house from here, just the entrance gate. It’s set well back from the road and the tall trees at the bottom of the drive do a good job screen-ing even its beautiful garden from view. The heavy iron railings and long, dark drive make it seem a bit creepy from here.

Suddenly I’m dialling Kitty, desperate to rage. I  take cover under a little ice- cream kiosk as it rings.

‘Pick up, pick up!’ I swish around underneath the red- and- white- striped roof, peering inside at the old- fashioned looking ice cream machine and the buckets and spades that hang from the ceiling.

‘Boo! You know what to do.’It’s a new greeting; they change each week. Even when

they’re utter rubbish, Kitty still sounds effortless, every time. I think it’s timing, or some confidence thing I totally suck at. I consider what to say to her. Of course I want to go off about her regramming Bryony’s post but then I might not even get to Mum, or the fact that I’m stranded in this miserable place for the next eight weeks.

Suddenly I’m hanging up and walking down towards the sand. What am I  doing? I  need to rehearse this call. For once in my life I’d like to say what it is I actually feel.

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I’m unable not to stare at the extraordinary view of the sea. The beach goes on forever and tiny stick figures dot the sand in the distance. There is a boat with a tall sail too. Everything looks so still. I stare out across the water and see an island I never noticed before silhouetted against the lilac and pink horizon. I stand in the delicate trickle of rain and take it in. I think about posting a picture. I’m composing the caption in my head when something stops me. I want to feel this instead. It’s literally pulling me closer.

I’ve got to touch the water.

i

Born in Dublin, Orlagh left Ireland after university to break into the film industry in London, working on pro-ductions such as Calendar Girls and Ali G before taking

over as Head of Physical Production at Pathe Films, where she oversaw numerous award-winning films including

Breakfast on Pluto and The Queen. Orlagh co-produced the BIFA-winning documentary Joe Strummer: The Future is

Unwritten and Mary Shelley, starring Elle Fanning. Orlagh lives in Somerset with her husband and their two children.

No Filter is her first novel.

vi

Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Oxford, New York, New Delhi and Sydney

First published in Great Britain in July 2017 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP

www.bloomsbury.com

BLOOMSBURY is a registered trademark of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

Copyright © Orlagh Collins 2017

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

All rights reservedNo part of this publication may be reproduced or

transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopyingor otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978 1 4088 8451 5

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